The Riders thundered up and slowed to a trot. Dust swirled around them. At the front was Dean Wilder. His black coat was open, and a cruel smile was plastered across his face.
“Well, well,” Wilder called. “Thomas Buckeye. Still patchin’ fences like a good ranch hand?”
Thomas said nothing. His hand rested near the Colt on his hip.
Wilder swung down from his horse, boots striking the dirt. The others followed. Their spurs jingled as they walked. Their eyes glinted with meanness.
“You know why we’re here,” Wilder said, strolling closer. “We’ve come for what’s ours. Best hand it over.”
“Ain’t got a clue what you mean,” Thomas replied.
One of the Riders laughed. “Playin’ dumb, Buckeye.”
Another spat. “Everybody knows you took it. Gold from that coach we bled for.”
“I never stole from you, and I never will,” Thomas replied, his jaw clenching. “You men brought enough misery without draggin’ my name into it.”
Wilder’s smile widened, though his eyes were cold. “Funny. Folks in town whisper different. Say you tucked it away. Say you think you can outsmart us.”
“If I had gold, I’d have built more than a shack and a fence line,” Thomas replied.
One of the Riders stepped forward, sneering. “Search the place. Tear it apart.”
Wilder raised a hand to stop him.
“Easy, boys,” he said. “We’ll give our friend here a chance to speak true. Last time I’ll ask nice. Where’s the chest?”
Thomas’s fingers brushed the grip of his Colt. “Not here. Never was.”
Silence stretched. The Riders shifted, boots scuffing in the dirt. Then Wilder chuckled lowly.
“I believe you, Tom,” he said. “I truly do. Problem is, belief don’t count for much. We can’t ride away empty-handed.”
Thomas’s heart thudded, but he kept his face calm. “You’ll ride away empty or not at all.”
That made a few of the Riders bark laughter.
“Hear that?” one called out to him. “Buckeye thinks he’s a gunslinger.”
“Maybe he is,” Wilder said, tilting his head. “Man’s got that Colt for a reason. But six against one? Odds ain’t in your favor.”
“I don’t run from odds,” Thomas said after taking a slow breath.
For a moment, no one moved. The only sound was the horses snorting and the desert wind brushing the grass.
Then Wilder’s hand dropped to his gun. “So be it.”
Steel flashed.
Thomas drew fast. His Colt roared, and one Rider spun back with a cry, blood spraying the dust. Another shot cracked from the gang, splintering the porch post near Thomas’s head.
He dove sideways and fired again. A second Rider pitched off his horse, clutching his chest.
“Kill him!” Wilder shouted.
Gunfire thundered. Bullets tore through the air, smashing glass and kicking up dirt. Thomas ducked behind the water trough, revolver smoking in his hand. He thumbed back the hammer, fired, and caught another Rider in the leg. The man went down screaming.
But they were too many.
